


Sure Steps

by menecio



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Baby Names, Blanket Permission, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:08:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24317818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menecio/pseuds/menecio
Summary: Peter B. Parker is sure of what he wants now.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Mary Jane Watson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 54





	Sure Steps

She still loves him, of course.

Well, maybe saying ‘of course’ is a bit pretentious. Peter had no reason to believe Mary Jane still loved him. In fact, he had every reason to believe the exact opposite. Their divorce hadn’t been nasty, but that had only made it worse, in a way. It had been hard, letting go. Letting her go. Letting her let him go. Peter still thinks the worst thing is how he didn’t try to hold on at all, and then immediately wonders if trying would have made things right or just messed everything up further.

He knows it wouldn’t have. He wasn’t ready, and leaps of faith don’t quite work when the issue revolves around making a family. You need sure steps for that sort of stuff. Unplanned parenthood is one thing, but planned parenthood when you aren’t sure? It sounds like an especially nefarious recipe for disaster. He would much rather destroy his happiness on his own than have a kid become the unwitting straw that broke his back. Or concrete. Peter has broken his back on concrete before.

Either way, the point remains. He wasn’t ready, and he chose not to drag an innocent child into the mess. If he couldn’t give Mary Jane what she wanted, he could at least step aside so that someone else might, no matter how much it hurt them both. He just wasn’t ready. He loved her, but he wasn’t ready, and love alone sometimes isn’t enough. Peter can imagine few things worse than two people in love splitting up. It makes no sense. It goes against logic. It’s like two mated seahorses splitting up. Scientific evidence says it’s impossible, aberrant, wrong.

Peter knows it to be heartbreaking.

So that’s why he thinks ‘of course’ when Mary Jane says she still loves him. It makes no sense for her not to love him any more, just like it makes no sense for him not to love her any more. There may be other universes where they aren’t together, where they never were, where they never met—but in this universe, they are a binary star system, and his years alone have left Peter feeling small and cold without Mary Jane’s warmth to keep him company.

He’s basking in her presence now, and he doesn’t exactly know how he has survived so long without her. Their marriage was a piece of work by the time it ended, sure, but there has always been something about her that makes Peter want to sing even though he hates singing.

“What?” Mary Jane asks, soft and smiling and suspicious.

They’re having tea in what used to be their kitchen, now hers. Peter hates tea almost as much as he hates singing, but this is a thing between them. He drinks Mary Jane’s favourite tea with her when he wants to apologise about something. Neither of them can remember when the ritual began, but Peter remembers drinking tea on the daily and without prompting during the final months of their marriage.

Sometimes he drinks tea in his flat, cheap and bitter and dark, when the knot in his chest gets too tight and the pressure behind his eyes threatens to spill out. He thinks of her every time. He dedicates each sip to her. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_.

He takes a sip now. “Nothing.”

She gives him a knowing look. He’s missed that look. It’s the look that tells him she’s already read his thoughts with her secret psychic powers and knows he’s lying. Peter drops his gaze to his cup and fiddles with the thin and curly handle. He recognises the china set. Aunt May gave it to them for their wedding. It’s an heirloom—it belonged to Peter’s parents first.

He likes this china set, mostly because Mary Jane only uses it when she’s already forgiven him for whatever he’s apologising about. He can’t recall the last time she used it with him. He worries she may be using it too soon. He hopes she isn’t.

“I like the place,” he says, then panics at being misunderstood as trying to weasel his way back into the house and not into her heart. “I mean, I like what you’ve done with it. Feels very you.”

“Thank you,” she says. “I wasn’t sure what to do at first. There was… an adjustment period.”

Peter thinks of all the boxes he still hasn’t unpacked, cluttering up his tiny flat, reminding him of everything he’s lost, trapping him in his sadness. He wouldn’t call what he’s been going through an adjustment period. It implies he’ll get used to it at some point. He doesn’t think he will. He doesn’t think he can.

He still gives a dry chuckle and says, “Yeah, uh, I know what you mean.”

She gives him another knowing look. It kills him that she knows him so well. He’s trying to keep it together here; he’s trying to be smooth. He can’t do either if she continues to give him knowing looks. In order for this to go somewhat well, he needs to believe she doesn’t think he’s as pathetic as he feels.

“What do you want, Peter?” she asks, and she sounds—

He doesn’t know how she sounds. She’s asked him this same question many times over the years in a myriad of different intonations, but this one is new. It feels almost flat except for the fact that it is so very obviously hiding something behind its controlled nonchalance. It feels almost clinical, almost analytical. It comes unbearably close to the tone she would get when she was just going through the motions during their marriage’s last legs: _How was work? Can you pass the salt? Did you catch Mysterio?_

“I want,” he starts, pauses, then carefully finishes, “to talk.”

That seems to stun Mary Jane into silence. He’s answered this same question many times over the years in a myriad of different ways, but this one is new. He’s never put much stock into words when actions speak so much louder, but this isn’t about what he prefers: this is about her.

“Talk,” she repeats, her tone uncertain.

“Yeah, I’ve—it’s been—stuff’s happened, you know,” he says. “It made me think. Made me grow.”

Mary Jane raises her eyebrows. “Up?”

Peter chuckles, this time more genuine. “I hope so. I think so.”

Mary Jane gives him a pensive look, no doubt trying to decide how much she can trust what he’s saying. She knows he would never lie to her—never has. He would rather file for divorce with her, the indisputable love of his life, than pretend he was ready to be a dad. That’s who he is: responsible and honest, the two things he learnt from Uncle Ben and Aunt May. Funny to say you’re that when you jump off buildings wearing spandex and most people don’t know it’s you in the suit, but he _is_ responsible and he _is_ honest. He likes to think he is those things where it counts. Breaking his own heart is a testament to it.

He shuffles his feet, takes another sip of tea. It’s slowly growing cold, which somehow makes the taste more bearable. Maybe he does actually like tea but iced rather than hot. Is that a thing? It might be, at least with him. He thinks about having iced tea with Mary Jane in the summer, and he longs for it so much that his chest hurts.

He wants so many things now. Some of them old, but many of them new. He wants to talk, yes, but he wants what comes after the successful version of this talk even more. He wants lazy mornings, soft pecks in the kitchen, two toothbrushes in the bathroom sink. He wants her back. But he also wants what she wanted before he was ready to want it too—a high chair at the table, kid toys in the living room, tiny feet pattering on the wooden floor.

Mary Jane reaches for him with one hand, a silent offer. He takes it without hesitation.

“I want to talk too,” she says, her small smile returning.

Peter doesn’t know if he won’t mess it up again, but he knows he’s ready. That’s more than enough to convince him to let himself fall this time. He loves her, and he’s so glad they’re having tea in their old living room, and he’s ready. Love alone will be enough this time. He’s sure of it. It has to be.

He smiles back. “Then I’d better listen.”

They don’t really talk that first day. Not about what Peter had gone to talk about, in any case. They talk a lot about everything else. They catch up. It’s been so strange, not talking to her. They’ve been conversational buddies since middle school. He knows how to make her laugh, she knows how to make him stutter. It’s fun, it’s natural, it’s great.

He’s missed this. He’s missed her.

So it’s understandable that he has no rush to steer their amicable chitchat toward murkier waters. He’s scared: he’s no sailor. He has foot-in-mouth syndrome even when he’s thought what he’s going to say and how he’s going to say it beforehand.

Mary Jane tells him about the new furniture; he tells her about his new adventure. Somehow, Mary Jane has more to say about the breadmaker she bought than Peter does about his five alternate-universe heroic counterparts—six if he counts the Peter Parker who died. To be fair, it’s a pretty kickass breadmaker, and Peter didn’t actually spend enough time chatting with the other Spiders to learn much beyond their names and origin stories.

He doesn’t tell her he’s dead in that other universe. He doesn’t tell her they were still in love and still together and that her alternate self was devastated by his death. Sometimes he wants to know if she would be devastated too, even though they have drifted apart. Then he remembers that the answer is obvious and berates himself for even considering revealing something so horrible just to get some warped sense of validation from her reaction.

“It’s been hard,” Peter says instead, afraid the confession will blow up in his face.

Mary Jane’s lips press into a line. After a moment, she says, “Yes, it has.”

* * *

They kiss almost three months after he first rang her doorbell.

It isn’t planned, which is probably why it’s perfect. They’re talking in the kitchen while Peter washes their cups. Mary Jane is leaning back against the counter and laughing at something Peter just said. Peter rinses off a cup and reaches past her to get the dishcloth hanging from the oven handle. Their faces get close. Mary Jane instinctively angles up toward him, looking surprised that she does, and Peter instinctively replies by leaning down toward her, feeling just as surprised.

The kiss is barely a brush of lips, so much so that Peter would question its actual existence if it weren’t for the way his body tingles from head to toe and leaves him feeling tense and gooey at the same time. It’s like a fire, a low flame that courses through him until he’s all toasty and aglow. Mary Jane’s always had a way of lighting him up without even trying.

In front of him, Mary Jane’s eyes are wide and her lips are closed, but she doesn’t seem upset.

Peter still steps back, breaking eye contact and clearing his throat.

“I’m, uh, sorry.” He shows her the dishcloth with a half-hearted shrug. “I just—this.”

He motions drying the cup with the towel, then starts doing exactly that. He rubs with a little more vigour than necessary. Mary Jane tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear.

“No, no, Peter, it’s—it’s fine.”

“I know. No, I mean—I don’t, obviously, I wouldn’t dare assume, but I want it to be. I want you to think it’s fine for me to—” He cuts himself off, grimacing at his awkwardness, and sighs. He stops drying the cup and just stares at it. “This is weird, isn’t it? Is this weird?”

“A bit, I guess,” Mary Jane says.

“Yeah,” he says, then asks, “But is it too weird?”

“Weird things happen to us a lot, Peter,” Mary Jane says, an eyebrow raised. During her years beside him, she has learnt to just roll with it whenever something strange takes place around her. “I’m not the best person to say if something is or isn’t weird, I think.”

He holds a finger up as if to disagree but then just points it at her. “Okay, that’s fair. How about bad-weird? You can tell me that much.”

“I can,” she agrees, “but I don’t know what this is yet.”

Peter goes back to drying the cup after a moment. It’s pretty dry by now, so he sets it down.

“That’s fair,” he says again.

After a pause, she rests a hand on his upper arm. “I’m sorry, Peter.”

“Don’t be,” Peter says, wishing he didn’t sound quite as gutted. He puts the dishcloth down and rests a hand on top of hers. “It _is_ fair. You’re right to still be wary. I hurt you. It’s okay if you take your time to decide if you can forgive me for that.”

Mary Jane’s face twists into a grimace. “I do forgive you, Peter. It’s you who can’t forgive yourself.”

Peter’s smile is rueful. “That’s also fair.”

“Listen,” she says, “I know you. I see you. If you’re here, it’s not on impulse.”

“It’s not,” he agrees.

“And you would never, ever hurt me on purpose.”

“I wouldn’t,” he says.

“And you’ve thought this through,” Mary Jane finishes. “You’ve made sure you want this.”

Peter nods, stepping closer. “I have. And I want it.”

Mary Jane smiles up at him, cradling his face in her soft hands. “So let’s be a family.”

* * *

They name their kid Miles, of course.

Well, maybe saying ‘of course’ is a bit pretentious. Not even Mary Jane expected the suggestion. She was so sure he would want to name their firstborn after his Uncle Ben. He does, too. But as a second name. He secretly plans to have his universe dubbed the B-Verse. It’s a bit subpar when compared to the others, after all. For the name to stick, he needs all Parkers and Spider-People who originate there to follow the second-name-starts-with-a-B pattern.

So the baby’s christened Miles B. Parker. He’s sure the teenager he was named after would approve. And if he doesn’t, too bad—it’s done already. Besides, having a baby named after you is an honour. Only weirdos would have a problem with it.

Peter uses the breadmaker to welcome Mary Jane and the baby back from the hospital with a fresh loaf of homemade bread. He put decadent amounts of honey and ginger and carrot in it, just the way his lady likes it. Mary Jane kisses him thanks in the kitchen, little Miles held warm and safe between them. The taste of iced tea lingers on their lips, light and sweet, and Peter feels like he’ll never stop smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been waiting in the wings for over a year, so I finally wrapped it up and posted it. Some introspective fluff, I guess? I really like the idea that our favourite Burrito got his act together, remarried MJ, and baked many loaves of bread with her (the first of which was named after none other than our Certified Best Boy). Thanks for reading!


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